The Forgotten Ones
by nestie
Summary: Short stories. Forgotten characters and rare pairings. Blaise must clear his name. Angelina has a choice to postpone. Pansy knows how to read the room, she just chooses not to. Flint's gone soft. Dean goes for the truth. Padma doesn't.
1. The Forbidden Ones

Title: The Forbidden Ones: After-Party

Rating: M

Story Summary: One-shots focusing on characters who deserved more from canon.

Chapter Summary: Post Hogwarts. Angelina Johnson and Marcus Flint meet at night. Banter ensue.

A/N: this one will have a part 2. Already breaking my own rules...

* * *

The ring on her finger flashed in the light of the last picture she would allow the photographs to take for the night. Angelina rushed into the car waiting for her outside of the stadium, throwing her bag first in front of her.

"Hey" a deep voice groaned, in return.

When she recognized the man sitting on the other side, the door had already been locked. She heard the engine start at the exact same time Marcus Flint's face appeared from the shadows.

"What are you doing in my car?" She barked at her opponent.

"This is my driver, Johnson. That bludger actually cause damages to your brain, eh? Let me tell Alfred to make a stop by St Mungo's."

"Please shut it."

Her head did hurt though the medic had cleared her to play the other half of the game. She'd lostbut that was the new seeker's fault. This was the right car, no doubt about it and she wasn't in the mood to investigate.

"I'm sure you live in one of the obnoxious neighborhoods," she let out, irritated, before scooting up and addressing the driver, "Alfred, would you please drop me off on..."

"Wait, you really thought that was his name?" Marcus cut off with a mischievous smile.

"Nevermind," she groaned, leaning back in her seat with a long sigh.

After all, she could wait, enjoy the long way home, forget her problems for the ride. They woukd be waiting for her at home.

Marcus picked up a bottle of Champagne from the refrigerated area next to him and offered it to Angelina, arching a brow.

"You lost, have a sip. It's tradition."

"A Slytherin one, surely, from all the losses you took back at Hogwarts."

He permitted a hearty laugh to her sass. His hand still offering the beverage.

"I don't drink," she consented to explain, disdain on her lips.

"Me neither," Marcus replied before opening the bottle with an expert move and gulping down the foam before it escaped.

Angelina turned her gaze away. It was silly. Something in the way he did that moved her body, contracted her lower stomach. She crossed her legs, retreating the feeling back in her mind, replacing it with George waiting for her at home with his charming smile.

Who was she kidding? George had never waited for her at home. Or in life. Date, move in together, propose. Sometimes she worried going home more than three times a week would mean a discussion about having children. She only wanted to relax in a hotel room, by herself. This was the next best thing, short of Flint staring.

Marcus hadn't seen her coming. One second and she was in his car, in his space. In truth many women had broken in his car, room, penthouse. His first thought was to assume she wanted him, the way the others craved his presence.

One look at her reminded him who Angelina was. A former Gryffindor. An opponent, a fellow player, one who knew better.

"So... what's your poison?" He asked, not expecting an answer. He filled silence with pickup lines and dry humor. Except she couldn't be picked up and he'd never seen a smile on her face, even through victory.

"Quidditch," she whispered, to his surprise.

Marcus put the champagne down, licking his lips. Because for the first time he didn't fill the silence - granted he didn't know what to say - she expanded.

"I play to the point of exhaustion, I played through fractures and broken bones. I missed friends' birthdays, family reunions... hell I missed my own engagement party for practice."

She spared him a glance. For approval? No. Fear of being judged. Nuance.

The way she fidgeted with her engagement ring. She was taken. It filled the air. She seemed to suffocate, hunching under the weight of this not-so-big ring.

But she was Johnson, she couldn't care less about eternal stones, he deducted. Or was she trying not to bruise Weasley's ego? She could buy herself ten times that jewel.

"I missed my father's funeral. Well... avoided it, if we're being honest," he retorted.

"Why are we by the way? Honest I mean."

It wasn't like they'd been friends, acquaintances or even cordial enemies. They were nothing to one another. Not ever once shared a page in QuidFan.

He shrugged. Because players didn't reveal secrets to outsiders. This was a relative safe space. The silent code. On the arena and outside of it. They had enough of the press trying to burn them at the stake.

"Because players are usually too drunk to withhold the truth. We can pretend to be, although I haven't been in months."

She shifted on her seat, relaxing. She liked straightforward answers, he realized. No BS. She spread her legs, stretched her arms and let her head fall on the leather. He had noticed her before, at school. Every player did, no matter the house.

They used to talk about her ass in the lockers. Truly, they compartmentalized her body in more ways than he could remember.

He would not forget however, how he felt when she stormed on him, enraged and half naked talking about him cheating or helping Draco doing so.

Until her friends dragged her out, the boys whistling and yelling.

"If only I could go back to being a 7th year player at Hogwarts... Hating you for your house."

She grinned at him and he couldn't help but smile.

"Are you mad? Go back and let go of the money, the fame, the favors, the respect?"

"Didn't you enjoy those as a teenager already? I, on the other hand, could do without if it meant..."

She caught herself, sitting upward again, gazing through the window. "Where are we heading?"

No fear in her tone. Either she trusted him, which was unlikely, or she knew she could win in duel. It was true, he'd seen her upset. And he had never been great at spells anyway, or potions.

"Not home. I'm going to an after-party. You can come. Miss another one of your boring family nights."

She did not like the comment. He saw the wince, yet she was considering it.

"What kind of party, Flint?"

No BS, he remembered just in time, catching himself.

"The sort you probably loathe. Alcohol, drugs, women of little virtue, men of small intellect coupled with bad manners. But I'll stay with you, I won't leave you to the wolves. Honest."

"I can defend myself."

"I know. I've seen you on a broom. I meant..

He stopped, choosing his words. I'll give you attention and stay close to you, I'll make you forget your bad romantic choices and have you remember that fire you had outside of the game, when you looked at me like you wanted to punch my face and I wanted nothing else but to burry it in between your thighs.

"I will make sure you don't get bored. I'm a great entertainer. I get paid the big bucks."

He smiled. One wink.

One wink, and she felt it again. The twitch inside her that she should not feel. Not right then, not with him. The one she hadn't felt in months in George's presence.

She could cry, knowing she forced herself so many times with George and this stupid ex-Slytherin appeared, flashing her a few smiles, opening a bottle - not even sabering it - and she went weak in the belly.

Instead, she smiled, tears retreating in her throat.

"I know that. I've seen you on a broom. On several magazine covers. And commercials," she repeated, mocking. "I'm not dressed for a party though."

"We can stop anywhere."

"Shops are closed at this hour."

"Not the good ones. And not for us. Don't tell me you buy at department stores."

He laughed, genuinely mocking her. Her mouth clamped shut and his hilarity doubled.

"Bloody hell, Johnson! Why are you so scared of showing off your money?"

He was choking on his own mockery now.

"If you must know, I find it obnoxious, arrogant and insensitive."

"Why?" He shouted, astonishment on his features, "Don't you work hard for it?"

"I do but... well I play quidditch. It's not the hardest job in the world. No 8 to 5 slowly dying behind a desk or freezing in the cold, mending roads, or running into fires to save people. And none of those jobs are paid as decently as they should."

His jaw dropped. That angular, square, manly jaw of his.

"What's the point then? Of having all this, not enjoying it and feeling guilty?"

Curiosity spread on his face.

"I can help people, my family, my friends, charities."

She held her chin high, ready for the crushing wave of his tease.

Marcus' body, too big for the small space, turned towards her, grave.

"Johnson. Those charities are scams. You must know this. The only people getting your money are the board of directors and the founders. Some business partner withdrawing the money from some overseas account."

She fell silent.

"Okay, you don't have to spend your blood diamond money on an outfit, I'll pay it for you. My dad actually mended those roads you mentioned and my mom repaired the computers that those employees spend ten hours staring at. They didn't find it arrogant nor obnoxious when they saw my first check, or the car I picked them up in."

Angelina almost broke her neck, trying to look at Flint. She heard the crack sound but ignored it.

"Wait, you weren't already rich?"

"No. Not sure why everyone assumed all Slytherins have trunks overflowing with gold. That's completely unrealistic and not highly probable."

In one second her longlasting prejudice had been shattered

"How many other truths about your old house did everyone get wrong?"

There it was. The gleamer in her eyes. Curiosity, interest. He had found what she was missing in her life. Novelty.

And to give that to a national player who traveled weekly, met new people daily and was offered more opportunities in a month than regular lads only saw in a lifetime, that was going to be hard.

Back up, he thought. What was he doing, making plans to impress Angelina Johnson? Why was he entertaining the possibility that she could be swayed or that he even wanted to make the effort?He didn't know her.

He knew of her, he had known her from afar.

What's in it for you, Marcus?

Sex, he could have that anywhere, anytime, without lifting a finger.

Company, he had in his teammates, cousins, friends.

Intimacy? She couldn't be the one to give him that. She was taken and he didn't need any.

Fun conversation? A verbal joust with a Red and Gold alum had its perks. Nostalgia. For old time sake. He did miss Hogwarts from time to time, common room talks and evenings. But surely that couldn't be enough to make him elaborate plans to woo her.

Marcus Flint was a simple man, with simple needs. Ones that were being met on a daily basis. Therefore the need of her made little sense to him.

They arrived on Pegasus avenue, the new, fancier and more expensive Diagon alley.

The driver opened the car for Angelina while Marcus waited for her outside.

"Malfoy wasn't Astoria Greengrass' first," he said, equivocally pointing to himself.

"Ew, Flint. No one even talked about that. And how did your driver know where to go?"

"I texted him. Since the post war reforms, my PR team thought it best for people to see me overtly welcoming of muggle inventions and customs. Cellphones are not hallway bad. Heard of 'em?

He guided her towards an Elsa Cove boutique, still open and was greeted by the manager, two champagne flutes in her hands.

"Mr Flint, I am so glad you know a lady's taste best," she simpered.

Marcus grabbed the two glasses, whispering in Angelina's ear. "I had a date, who made a list of what she required me to buy her to be in her company. Half the list mentioned this brand, considering she was a model... I didn't think I could go wrong."

The manager was babbling about seasons, textiles, handmade seams and events while Angelina nodded and fake smiled, responding in her opponent's ear.

"I'm an athlete, Flint. Do you think haute couture is going to fit?"

He finished his second drink. "Fitness model. Not runway," he added innocently.

Angelina sighed and consented to give some information to the woman. He sat on an ottoman, waiting for her to showcase tight outfits.

Nothing happened. The door of the fitting room flung open and a on out-of-breath Angelina came out.

"Did you pick the cheapest, most casual thing you could find here?" He asked.

The manager shot him an "I did everything I could" apologetic look.

Angelina had picked a two piece ensemble that seriously made it difficult not to want to touch those thighs.

"I picked what I liked. Plus shorts look good on me. You still havent answered. What's the Slytherin Untold scoop?

Marcus dropped a bag of gold in the manager's hands which she repaid with a smile.

"Ms Johnson I hope to see you become one of our frequent select customers."

Angelina waved to her, walking out of the overlit store. Marcus brushed her lower back, showing her out. He didn't think any of it, truly. Nothing more than a habit of getting close to beautiful women who wanted nothing else than to be touched.

Angelina startled, like struck by a stupefix. She recalibrated her walk and carried on without a comment. She too wanted to be touched and she hated it.

That curve between her back and her ass, Marcus could picture it. Against a wall, angled on a couch, or right there in the limousine.

"Let's not go to the party," she suggested. "Let's just keep riding this muggle transport."

And she looked like Christmas morning, full of hope and promises to unwrap. How could he argue?

"You're really serious about those Hogwarts Uncovered questions, huh?"

She was serious about not being photographed with Flint. She had already been reckless just then. She was serious about not going to a party full of people who would ask questions she wasn't ready to answer. She just wanted this weird moment, lost in space and time, to last, in a car, not drinking Champagne with an old classmate.

One who somehow reminded her that she wasn't all about practice, press conferences, George's dream of expanding the store, George's dream of having weekly family dinners, George's dreams of enacting Fred's dreams, Molly's dream of grandchildren, Fleur's dreams of double date nights.

"I've always liked you" she heard, jumping out of her thoughts and almost out of her body, heart leaping into the void of what her emotional life had become.

"As a player," Flint added when she turned her eyes on him. "You weren't like Potter swooping in at the last minute and getting all the credit, or Wood tiring himself out from the start. You wanted to enjoy the game, no matter what."

She flashed him an affectionate smile. Affectionate towards the old her. The fierce teenager.

"Once, I made a game last an extra half hour, in the rain, because I didn't want to go through Wood's stretching exercises afterwards. Also I had a paper to write and I kept procrastinating."

"Wood lived up to his reputation, didn't he?"

She chuckled, full on fond memories, "He was a great captain. He molded his players. Guess he still does as a coach. People say players surpassing him is a tell on his lack of abilities, I say it's the opposite. He is that good that he sent dozens of students to become professional players."

"What do you think of me? As a player?"

She wondered if he ever asked someone their opinion on it before. Did he value her game that much? Was it a play? He couldn't think he had a chance with her, could he? No matter the twitches, she would never.

He was eye candy and she didn't eat sweets.

"You were ruthless, in Hogwarts. Blind rage and untamed force. You were a hazard. Wood couldn't predict your moves and it made him mental. Everyone hated you."

He locked eyes with her, taking in the critique.

Taking it like a champ, she thought, laughing internally. She grudgingly continues. "Now you're all refined strength, polished technique. You're an asset. A time-tested value."

"A sound investment... a quality product. The press favorite descriptives, indeed."

She recognized it, the glimpse of cynicism, the aftertaste of disappointment.

He was giving her this moment. This time she desperately needed, so she decided to give him what she thought he needed in the moment.

"People see you as a product yes, however, they like you as a person. You're hard to crack Flint, or so I presume. But you've had the same friends for over a decade, you don't parade with a different girlfriend bimonthly. I've never heard of any drunken bar fights or disorderly conduct. You hold your own and you even share you car with an opponent. A former Gryffindor."

He nodded, approving and satisfied, letting his head rest on the seat. He glanced at her, once again.

"Why are you wearing this ring, Johnson? You're with me, instead of him. Just break it off."

She swallowed, tears threatening to flood again.

"To do what? Haunt the parties, searching for shallow love? Celebrity is a catch 22. I knew him from before. I know it's real. He's... good."

Funny. No, hilarious. Slap your thighs funny. Knows whats important, has family values, educated, financially literate.

"But not good for you. Not your fault. Not his. You're not shallow or ungrateful for wanting something different."

She couldn't believe Marcus Flint was trying to give her relationship advice.

"If you follow this by telling me you went to uni for psychology, I will slap you Marcus."

And out of nowhere, she had said his name. She heard herself moaning it against a pillow, murmuring it in his ear, screaming it, muffled against his skin. The twitch again. And a pulse in between her legs.

Stop, she told herself at once.

"I almost dropped out of Hogwarts, I didn't bother enrolling in university. I know nothing about psychoanalysis other than the word. But it doesn't take a diploma to know this, I just took one good look at you."

"Oh really? You're supposed to be a brute, Flint, not some observant gentleman. Since when do you think?"

She had yelled it. Mean. Unfair words he didn't deserve.

"Well shit, Johnson, classist much?" He replied back, calm and collected.

He had heard it before, she could tell. It bounced back on him like a bludger. Thick skin.

She leapt forward, her belt half strangling her.

"Oh Gosh, I'm sorry. I am. I... You..."

"Don't bother. Outside of tonight, this is what you really think. We both know it. You can't even lie and say you didn't mean it."

"I dont know you!" Angelina defended her position. " I knew you as a teenager. I've seen glimpses of you as an adult. They can't erase seven years of gratuitous violence."

"People can't change? Or grow, in our case. Who's the arrogant, insensitive one now?"

The words stuck on her tongue, she had nothing to say that would not make it worse, make her look hideous.

"Well," she finally attempted, "moment's over. Your driver can drop me off on King's street. I'll walk."

"Didn't think you were a quitter. See, I'm not scared of a heated conversation. You, however, can't take the truth being thrown in your face and if we stay here I guarantee you it will happen again, therefore we're going to the party now. Unless you still want to go home."

She tried extremely hard not to compare but her mind overlapped. George's multiple exits in the middle of an argument or a conversation rot going his way, one he couldn't lighten up with a joke. He'd reappear a few hours later, silent or full of sorry's, letting Molly console Angelina, explaining that emotional pain was hard to endure for her son, since the loss of his twin. Angelina knew that. She understood. Forgave him time and time again for choosing silence over her.

Grief is not a choice, honey, Molly would remind her.

"Fuck the paparazzi. Let's go."

He felt on top of the world with Angelina by his side. Guests shot him incredulous glances. Johnson was a free spirit, unapproachable outside the stadium. There she was, with him, in an outfit so tight he could barely go two seconds without thinking about her moaning for him.

He could tell she wasn't moaning for anyone else, certainly not for Weasley. He brushed the dip of her lower back again, guiding her through the crowd, towards the buffet. She didn't startle this time. He could swear she started rolling her hips. Right then, he knew it was worth the effort to make plans. There was a chance. Still, he couldn't figure out why her.

"We didn't like Snape. Most of us wished for a different house director. We always thought McGonagall was more Slytherin material than she'd ever admit."

She stopped, her bite halfway through her lips, dropped it back on the plate, rolled her head back and let the burst of laughter explode.

"No! Nononno. I can't!" She laughed so hard she started choking, Marcus slapping her back. Angelina was snorting by then, tears in her eyes.

She managed to take a full bite this time before the laughter rolled up.

"Shit, are you going to make it?" He asked, contagiously chuckling.

He realized it too late. Being dangerously too close. Brushing her arms ad stroking her back. She would pull back. Why was he so close to begin with?

Angelina looked up, chewing.

"Yeah, thank you. I'd definitely want you by my side if a piece of starch gets stuck in there. You almost popped my lung."

That was it. He had ventured too close, to the point of no return. How could he go back knowing her curls smelled like coconut and vanilla?

How could he ignore the pride of being the one responsible for the first ever laughter he'd ever seen her indulge in, in public or otherwise. And, truly, Flint didn't consider himself the funny type.

How could he, forget how she felt in his arms, shaking from hilarity, eyes wide open by genuine surprise at his revelation.

He wanted her. He wanted her more than he had wanted to win the game that night.

She recognized something in the way he looked at her and composed herself. Two steps back. That's all it took to suck the warmth out of the room.

He knew what was happening, of course, and what would come next. She would lower her eyes, pretend an early start and busy schedule, only to never acknowledge him again.

"Don't look at me like that, Marcus Flint." she demanded, eyes fixed on him.

"Am I making you uncomfortable by wanting you?"

No point hiding his intentions. She had seen it and he never once played coy with women. If he wanted them, he would not keep them guessing.

"You're making me way too comfortable. That's the problem. You're my true opposite. I shouldn't even toy with the idea of letting my guard down with you. And of course there's..."

"Weasley. Have you ever screamed his name during sex? Moaned whatever you call him at home, so he knows he's got you?"

She blinked, trying not to betray shock. She wasn't used to Flint's ways outside of the arena. He had a way with words. Mostly throwing them right at her with perfect aim and without warning.

She thought about her answer. She could not remember. Had she ever stamped her love for George? Had he?

"I don't see how that's relevant to any..."

"Because you just said mine and I could tell how it felt on your tongue. More importantly, you wanted to say it and you wanted me to hear it. Well I've heard it and I'm listening."

Angelina blinked again, half startled to find out he was right. She did want to see his reaction at his name between her lips. She'd never felt necessary to say George's name in intimacy or not.

With Marcus there was a sense urgency. A compulsion. A disorder. Don't let it become an obsession, she thought.

It was urgent he'd drop hints of his attraction. Pressing she'd deny flirting with him or forbid him to lay hunting eyes on her. The preying glance he had during the game, focused on one goal.

"I'm going to throw up," she suddenly blurted, hurrying towards the front doors.

"Not there," he said, guiding her towards the bathroom as she remembered anyone could photograph her outside.

She did not throw up in fact, only disgusted herself to the point of violent nausea.

"I know what I'm feeling is merely the result of bigger and deeper issues in my relationship. But I can't help but thinking I'm a terrible person for even entertaining the idea of..."

Having sex with Flint? Never. Absolutely not. No. Yes, please but not in this life or the next.

Kissing the full lips that had made magazine covers? What was it, cover of the month at least three times? Dangerously so.

Reveling in broad shoulders and firm torso built to resist stringent weather? Definitely.

Sharing intimate details about herself and her fiancé? Sadly, already done do.

Clearly she needed therapy. If only not to divulge her private life to professional rivals and former school neneses at the first overflow of emotions.

"...Betraying him." She finished, purposely vague.

She pushed her palms on the cold marble counter, trying not to look at her guilt in the mirror. Flint on the other hand, for some reason unafraid of her to-big-to-contain emotions, applied his hand on her cheek, brushing the soft hair above her ear. She'd never seen him with such soft features painted on his face.

He made a suggestion neither of them ever considered him saying. "Then go back to him and figure out what those issues are. Maybe come find me later. You know which car I ride."

He knew it and so did she, this fleeting silly time bubble between them proved far more serious than they intended or could ever have foreseen.

Him releasing them both from the moment - knowing chances were she would never find her way back to him - was the most show of respect she'd ever received. How maddeningly sad.

Oh how she wished she could lean on him. She wouldn't. He could not help her solve her problems and his presence would only be a crutch preventing her from making the effort necessary to walk on her own again.

He could kiss her right then, one time, but possessed enough emotional intelligence to understand his last statement would get him further than any physical attempt at closeness.

She could grab his hand and seamlessly dive into his chest for optimum comfort. Except, the bitterness of betrayal would only spoil the sweetness she was craving.

And just like that they parted ways.

Marcus Flint did not mention his evening with Angelina Johnson to any of his friends. He managed to push the experience far enough in the back of his mind that only the scent of coconut and vanilla would provoke an involuntary leap of his heartbeat.

As for Angelina Johnson, she was never better. At the top of her game. Married, also. He heard somewhere. She only thought about him in front of white marble sinks, a familiar twitch taking her back.

Lives had not been ruined. Games had carried on until the Prophet announced the purchase of two infamous players by the national team, for the first time playing on the same side.


	2. The Troubled Ones

Title: The Troubled Ones

Rating: M

Story Summary: One-shots focusing on characters who deserved more from canon.

Chapter Summary: Blaise is not looking for redemption. Theo stole a car. Pansy regrets nothing. Alicia gets a job.

A/N: this one will have a part 2.

* * *

Blaise Zabini wasn't one to enjoy landscape panoramas but he also did not care for adding more excruciating time to this road trip.

So between vomiting his copious Southern French breakfast in Theodore Nott's pristine glove box or aiming his head through the window with no other distraction than glancing at the rearview mirror, Nott had made his choice for him.

"I know what you're thinking," Theodore announced, turning down the radio show he insisted on listening to every day. "Tragic, really, to be reduced to utter inertia, for hours, when we could have sprinkled some floo pwder or apparated."

Being met by Blaise's grudging silence, he continued, unencumbered. "Four wheels, the most mundane muggle transport. And so, not to disturb your lifestyle even more than the wizemagot already has, I got us this pure and filthy luxury. Equine power or something."

Blaise gritted his perfect teeth - natural alignment, no braces, thank you - before grudgingly sparing a reply.

"No, actually, I was cursing the fact that you're enjoying this ride far more than your breeding should allow you to."

"Well, you, my friend, better start sipping on that proverbial half-full pint otherwise, these twenty-four months are going to turn you into a bitter version of a certain Slytherin director. May his name not be invoked in vain."

"Fuck Snape and fuck you, Nott," Blaise yelled through the wind, before popping his head back in the car. "It's a fucking aberration that a wizard of my status has been forbidden from using magic for two bloody years, when you and Malfoy walk free."

"Oesophagus out of the vehicle please. Also, you have to admit the irony of depriving you of the very birthright our... muggleborn classmates were being tortured for, is a well thought equilibrium."

"If only I had anything to do with how they were being treated. I was minding my own throughout the whole battle."

Theo's attention span tended to diminish drastically these days. Not true, Blaise corrected himself. It started after the war, like everything else.

Theo had already turned the volume back up, hoping to cover the continuously outraged voice on the passenger seat.

"Zabini, are you hearing this?"Nott blurted, uselessly pointing at the radio.

Blaise didn't need to, he'd heard it all already. The rumors interlaced with a sensationalized version of factual truths.

He'd read everything about the Slytherin house's demise, especially his own.

Malfoy had been pardoned, with his blonde hair and his pale skin, he could do no wrong, or at least none that wouldn't be forgiven. Blame it on his young age, his abusive father. A withering mother and a combination of "but whom amongst us hasn't made bad choices?"

Zabini, was who. He had consciously and methodically planned each action with sound decisions.

Not being seen publicly with Draco, careful not to give personal opinions about any former students, avoiding showing off luxury and privilege.

Privilege. They attached that word to him like they didn't enjoy more of it than he could ever.

Pansy knew that. She would refrain from using key words the press chewed up and spat out every two pages. She was an intellectual, the kind that reminded him of his arrogant classmates, his haughty school friends. After all, she had been both.

They sparred with words, jousts of sarcasms with deep cuts of culture, making them feel superior to the masses.

She could have kept the trajectory but something changed. Cracked. Broke. Only, from his point of view. She'd use other descriptives. Clicked. Shifted. Fell into place.

She chose radio over paper. He saw her notebooks, she could have written a plethora of articles, been published by the most brillant magazines next to acclaimed critiques. She loved flipping her metaphorical finger therefore deciding to host a simple radio show instead.

Today, she would introduce a special guest. One that had been silent through and through.

"No, seriously, Did you hear how she introduced you?" Theodore strangled himself, refraining a scream or a laugh.

"No, it doesn't matter. I'm saying my piece and I'm out," Blaise admonished for the fifth time. Each one with a less detached tone and a hint of another feeling he couldn't identify.

"I know you're doing it for old time's sake. After all she used to be one of us and there's no us anymore. I get it. Call it loyalty, nostalgia, friendship."

Attributes rarely associated with Blaise. In his defense, every Slytherin alumni had gone soft. Truly, he would not be the first one to play chivalrous and help an old housemate make a career move.

"What's in it for you though? And don't feed me this I-want-to-redeem-my-image bullshit."

Blaise let a true laugh escape. Nott never believed in redemption. He preferred the comforting burden of carrying mistakes and terrible decisions, like a bottomless bottle to drink from. A flavorless gum to chew on.

"I want peace of mind. You know it. That thing you're entitled to. News, public opinion and everyone from barmaids to chauffeurs think I'm worse than Draco. And gotdammit I never attempted to finish off our old director."

"Who the fuck cares? And since when do you?"

Since Pansy had reached out, asking something similar. "Do you care enough to set the records straight, Zabini?" She'd say.

Did he? That part was still left to figure out. They arrived at the studio and Theo turned off his enchanted watch, the radio show vanishing from their ears.

AstroProd, the letters read as they came in, greeted by two receptionists dressed in the casual muggle fashion.

A lot of wizards tried hard to prove openmindness by adopting non magical customs. Theo sniffled, a lofty expression painted on his face for everyone to see.

A technician placed headphones in Blaise's hands and indicated a chair in front of a microphone.

"Blaise Zabini, as promised, just joined us," a voice announced, coming from the chair opposite him. "I know some of you were skeptical but here he is, ready to tell the story we are craving to hear. This is Hidden Worlds with Pansy Parkinson. We'll be back after a short break from our sponsors."

—

Pansy had left space for a themed analysis on post-war emigration and slight disappointment in case Zabini didn't show up. But Blaise made good on his promises, mostly because he never promised. Easy. Except that one time. Not this time, for her show. No. That time, once before, in their old common room. Then, she really thought she had caught him off guard and yanked it out of him. Victory.

Arrogant illusion. Nothing caught Zabini off guard. In retrospection, she knew he must have thought about it every which way.

Seeing him brought back memories. The sort of pictorial flashes that made you forget to exhale, the heart that had been beating of its own accord for well over two decades, suddenly needing a reminder.

The war, she remembered, associating it with the image of him. Insidious memories those ones. Corpses in the dining hall. Not corpses. People. Students she knew. One she bullied. One she made cry in the bathrooms. Blood in the stadium's grass. Empty paintings. Enchantments in a night sky so bright.

"Blaise. Looking good."

Mundane. Flat. But undeniably true. Went without saying. Why did she feel the need to state the obvious?

He offered her a merciful smile, sparing her the usual sarcasm of their old house. A true gentleman.

"I have something for you," he said, foraging in his pocket.

She nearly gasped at the sight. Only because she was Pansy and had spent a lifetime masquerading emotions through absence of facial expression, she simply took the key he was handing. The key from that time in the common room. That time he had promised.

Yes, Blaise Zabini knew how to make an entrance.

"Let's dive in," she interrupted her own thoughts, saving herself from spiraling down the implications of this turn of event. "How does it feel to be an unforgiven Slytherin alumnus in a post-war world? Does it feel as lonely for you as it does for me?"

He shot her a long and sustained glance. Maybe he was surprised by her bluntness. But who would even blink at Parkinson being forthright for show? Maybe he had never thought of it through his own emotions.

"Well, Pans' I've always been lonely so, that's not what would come to mind first. It's fucking inconvenient is what it is."

"Not being able to blend in? Which you always did despite being the exact opposite of bland."

"Much like you trying to finish my thoughts right now, mistakingly, might I add."

"Well you're giving me halfass answers. My audience wants to know Blaise. You accepted to be on air and tell it all."

She wasn't annoyed at his unfinished thoughts. She was irritated with herself, being wrong in her guess.

"Don't lie, Pansy. You want to know more than they do. This is entertainment for them. They've formed their opinion about me. They're mainly waiting for me to dig my own grave while they revel in the self righteous ecstasy of being on the winning side of History."

Why did she crave to know so much? She had never been one for analyzing her own heartaches. Of course she had had to dabble in attempting to be more insightful after... everything. In her head it was merely maturity.

Stopped bullying others too weak to defend themselves. Mostly because she got bored and preferred attacking worthy opponents.

Stopped spending time with people for status. Mostly because Malfoy had chosen Astoria over her and she wasn't one for seconds. A good lesson learned early on.

Started doing something purposeful with her money. Mostly because radio host seemed entertaining. She could maintain her old high school persona for amusement. Here there was still a semblance of normalcy. Of order.

And she wanted to share it. She wanted to be Pans' again, one of the gang and Zabini was the closest she would ever get to it. Or the farthest, seeing as he didnt even care to humor her anymore.

She turned towards him, moving her chair to face his too neutral face.

"Why are you here if not for redemption or absolution?"

Good fucking question. And suddenly, he couldn't breathe. This chair, this studio this city were all too constricting. His body shot up, looking for air after a dive.

She quickly rose to her feet herself. "You're not leaving Blaise."

He glanced at her, a disgusted look on his face.

"This is not Hogwarts. Your little games are over."

"You promised Blaise. You promised."

It was right there, in her eyes. Despair. He hated being the life saver tossed at sea but he would hate to break the only promise he'd ever extended, much more.

And so he slowly sat down. Inhale. Exhale. The snare released.

Slightly tapping his fingers on the base of the microphone, he confessed the only thing that could make sense.

"There's Draco who had to choose between killing and dying. He was saved in extremis. Somehow became a martyr although he didn't sacrifice shit. There's Nott who could bask in the luxury of indecision, being neutral in a war of extremes. Nothing changed for him. There's you, Pansy, who escaped the worst, making little compromises with your conscience. And there's me."

"What happened to you Zabini? How did you negotiate your survival?"

She had to know.

He wanted to tell her. Really. Honest to Merlin. He just didn't want to tell the world. But that was the deal he'd made.

"Maybe it was a mistake, not to be seen with Draco. Obviously."

He was edging, buying time, leading her on. She helped him.

"Malfoy. Son of Death Eater Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy née Black. He, as you may recall, has been judged victim and survivor by the Extraordinary Council," Pansy dottily reminded her audience then slightly turned to her former friend.

"How could they forget? He is on every tv couch there is."

"You weren't seen with me either or Theodore Nott. You broke up with the first girl you've cared about. You just up and disappeared."

An irritated sigh escaped Zabini's mouth. "She wasn't."

"Still. Some of us even thought you joined the resistance with that Dumbledore's army. I never believed it. And now that your sentence has been leaked by the press, no one will speculate about which side you were on."

"My sentence is definitely not representative of what I did during that time. They just needed to punish someone and it was of bad taste to blame students stuck in a school, against their will or not, so they picked me, one of the rare Slytherins who escaped."

"Why won't you tell us then? Clear your name."

"I've changed my mind," he announced, barely surprising himself. He'd never been certain to go through with it. "I never cared for public opinion, why should that change just because of how magnified it is now?"

She knew she wouldn't be able to convince him this time. His traits had changed, resolute.

She scheduled a pre-recorded skit and disabled her microphone. "Will you tell me in private?"

He stood, towering her with vengeance. "I would have, if you hadn't bargained with me to broadcast it first. I was looking for my friend. Not a fucking advertiser. You haven't changed a bit."

It hurt. As it should have, she thought. She'd hurt many more.

"Is that your last word?"

"No," he said. "Now that you have the key. Use the money, find something else to do. You're bad at this, clearly. You didn't get the grand reveal advertised."

War hand't made everyone nicer and thoughtful. Some had morphed into spiteful little shits. Like Zabini here, she decided. All in all, she was lucky not to have changed much. It was the better deal. No loss, no trauma to jolt a new personality.

She shrugged."That's the risk with a loose canon like you. Thanks for holding onto the key for me. You've been a good friend and I haven't. Bet that pisses you off even more."

How easy it was to fit into her old mechanisms.

"Go to hell."

"Remember we've all been there already. And contrary to popular belief, we haven't made it out."

She turned, registering the presence of Nott, gingerly slipping into a seat and starting speaking, live, to the public.

"Hello. My name is Theodore Nott. Ever considered the problem child, although you might start realizing the entire Slytherin alumni list is malfunctioning. I stole a car today. Certainly not because I needed it or because I could. Well that yes, but mostly because I like to make the best of a a fucked world where rules sometimes don't apply. See the government is way too busy with reconstruction to care about me thieving a muggle transport..."

She tuned him out. Ever the entertainer that one. She should offer him a contributor position.

She hadn't trusted herself to use her trust fund, asking Blaise to hold on to her codes in a physical box, hidden in her vault. She wanted to do without, prove it to herself, to all the others who only saw her as the one who suggested selling the Chosen One to Voldemort. She wasn't sorry. She wanted to be. To appease the haters, to feel closer to normal. But why should he have lived while she risked dying? What made his life more valuable than hers and countless others? Maybe she didn't want to change at all. Maybe her efforts were nothing more than sheer hypocrisy, peer pressure to pass as a good person.

She wasn't bad for wanting what made sense to her.

"You're right. Blaise. Fuck redemption. Crush absolution."

To that, Nott came to a halt, busy as he was discussing French immigration law, his second residence in Nice and international bank accounts. "Hold on," he warned. "The sinners are about to make up."

"I'm leaving," Boise said."I'm taking the car. Nott, I assume you're staying here. Try not to shag one another."

"Not happening," they both replied.

So it was a fifty-fifty percent chance. General life boredom and identity crises often prompted people to get naked in front of people they shouldn't.

In the background he heard Theo urging him to wait, that he didn't even know how to drive and that the car had been reported stolen.

Blaise did not care. He should have. This was reckless. But that was the thing with injustice, criminal injustice specifically. It sometimes led to worse actions. Taunting fate, tickling your lack of luck. He just wanted to see a friend. A real one. Admitelly he needed a therapist but he already had seen one twice in ten days and she had insisted they did not exceed a certain amount of sessions per week because dependence, avoidance, stuck points and all that Jazz. He'd offered to pay double, talk online - a real stretch by the way, using muggle technology - but she'd simply offered a conciliant smile and stood her ground.

He could revert to his old ways. Smash and crash. Binge and cringe. But what a fucking hypocrite would that make him then? And Merlin did Blaise love to feel and actually be superior. Lecturing Pansy to stoop as low as her was simply not a viable option. Righteousness required suffering more often than not. Blaise was not accustomed to being wrong.

He was known to do the most ridiculous things to achieve such a lofty goal. Which is why, when he received an owl from Minerva McGonagall, he did not reflexively throw it out the rolled down window, like anything coming from the flaming pile of shit that was Hogwarts, Ministry of Magic controlled entities or any authority closely or loosely related to the fucking running joke that was his current life.

—

Alicia Spinnet trailed her fingers on the stuffed fabric of the chair's arm where she was uncomfortably sitting. McGonagall had always made her nervous. Having graduated from her first university degree did not, in fact, ease her fear of being the recipient of one of the director's notorious death glares.

"I must say, Ms Spinnet that I find your enrollment in an organizational psychology Master's positively wonderful. I commend you."

The thank you leaped from her throat like a croak. She coughed, shifted on her seat and elaborated.

"I appreciate you thinking about me for your new wellness program implementation."

"Few of your graduating class peers have continued their studies. Understandably so, but nonetheless. You are the perfect candidate to help my current students live a healthy lifestyle."

She needed the experience, wanted the relief. Relief of doing something. Taking action. She'd done nothing for others her entire life, especially after the battle. She had always been good at focusing on her goals, never letting distractions pull her astray. She'd picked her degree based on guilt. Worked through her issues, dove into her own shit - as her internship supervisor called it - and figured she could reconcile both her needs and self-image by carrying on that path.

"I hope I can be worthy of your trust and confidence in my abilities, Professor. I..."

"Minerva. Please. We are coworkers now. Peers."

The director offered her an encouraging smile as Dumbledore's portrait behind the seat, sagely nodded his acquiescence.

"Right, hum. I hear you have other returning alumnae. May I ask whom?"

"Mr. Warrington. Mr. Wood. Ms. Chang and... will you excuse me?"

The insisting knock on the door stopped as she opened it and followed Mr. Filch outside for an emergency on the quidditch field.

Alicia reflexively checked her phone, a new muggle addition to her life, quickly turned necessity.

**From Blaise:** "Do you work today?"

"Isn't it mad that this sentence is now part of your vocabulary by sole virtue of frequenting me?"

**From Blaise; **"It is. Tragic, really. I could remedy it. Fund your dreams."

"I'd love that but the power imbalance would eventually murder this burgeoning friendship. So no. And yes, this means you're more important to me than money."

**From Blaise: **"Well that's only because you still love the novelty of your job. Owl me when that gets old."

"You still can't accept the fact that you are using a phone, can you? So... did you tell the world? Or at least Parkinson?"

**From Blaise: **"No" shrugs emoji. "I did not tell her my alibi for not being in Hogwarts during some of my last year was, in fact that I was on suicide watch for weeks and inpatient for months. Although I'm sure she'd find the alcohol and drug use rehab so mundane... but that was only part of it, wasn't it?"

"Well, maybe your priorities have shifted. Maybe you care more... hold on, McGo is back. In her office right now. Talk later."

She often wondered how her friends would react at her interning in a mental health facility, meeting none other than Blaise Zabini as a patient and slowly finding common grounds. Of course she made sure to never be his therapist. Problem was, she could never tell the truth to her friends. Not before he revealed his own story.

Blaise was funny, spirited. Cynical and disillusioned but who wasn't now? She sure tried not to be, taught others to foster brighter emotions.

"Where was I? Oh yes, our last guest is Mr. George Weasley," The director announced and Alicia's heart sank.

The last time she saw him they fought. She fought with Angelina too. Seeing George was always difficult. They could all feel the missing presence of Fred and George tried his best to make it easier on others.

"Really? He always said he'd never come back here."

"Yes..." she sighed. "Mr. Weasley may have a hard time coming back here. I hope you'll be able to help him in some way too. But he volunteered actually. No letter was sent to him."

So he was moving forward. Just like her. Just like Blaise. That left Katie. But today wasn't the best day to think of her best friend's problematic behavior patterns.

"Shall we walk around the castle as we speak? I really want you to observe the changes and start thinking about your new role by soaking in the environment. The others are already here, waiting for us."

"Excuse me?"

She thought she'd have time to mentally prepare to see them all. She wasn't ready.

"Are you ready?" Minerva asked again, completely dismissing her surprise.

She rose to her feet, suddenly nauseated. In a few minutes she'd start her first real job and attend a makeshift high school reunion all at once. Angelina's sarcastic comment from their last fight rung in her ears. "Welcome to the real world Alicia. Now you can finally stop judging me."


End file.
